Corresponding Shapes
by aloxi
Summary: The process by which Odysseus, in Sparta as Helen's suitor, falls instead for Penelope.


*

You were fussing over Helen when I first saw you, my dear Penelope.

This is not something you will recall— all of us suitors had only just arrived on the shores of Sparta (and don't think the irony of the fact that I began as a suitor escapes me, darling). We had been bustling about, laughing raucously and looking with awed admiration at the great stone walls of the castle, when a hush suddenly fell over all.

I must add in a bit about the scenery, here. Surely you remember the sandy shores of the land, and how they gradually heightened and sprouted grass, so that the castle of Sparta rested on a large green hill? It was the top of this hill that you and Helen were traipsing across, returning from what appeared to be a walk by the seaside.

All us suitors stood, transfixed, as the golden-haired girl you call your cousin spun in a slow circle while she walked; all our breaths caught when she stumbled in the motion, then dipped her head back and laughed. We could see not her face, nor her hands, nor the shape of her body. We saw only the sea-colored dress she wore, the curls that danced around her cheeks as they glinted in the sun… and, as if disembodied, we saw a hand reach out to tuck one tendril of coiled hair behind her ear, and then another hand brush something from her clothing.

It was you, my darling, who tenderly handled Helen as though she had been born from your own womb.

I did not spare you a second thought.

*

That is, not until the welcoming feast.

It's difficult, now, to remind myself that King Tyndareus did only what was expected of a ruler in welcoming his daughter's suitors so extravagantly… though I do admit to being just the smallest bit bitter when reminded of how much more polite, how much kinder all of us were in comparison to those horrible men you would have to fend off so many years later. Of course, I must admit that the king w_as _present, at all times, and mother Gaia only knows what would have happened to beautiful young Helen without her powerful father there to supervise. It's easy enough to rationalize, when I'm thinking clearly, the differences between our stories— but I'm afraid that rationalizing is much harder for me to do when it concerns _you,_ my dear.

But back to the feast: slabs of meat on the long table, the yells and roars of dozens of men, minstrels singing for the sole purpose of providing background music. The candles flickered as Tyndareus stood at the head of the table, pounding his goblet down onto the table and, when respectful silence fell, announcing that the women would now be joining them. Of course, by women he meant only _my Helen_.

Descend the staircase she did, where it opened into the wide hall we all dined in. The quiet became all-consuming as, with careful, even movements, she walked down the steps. It was so much easier, now, to become enthralled by her— she swayed slightly as she moved, and the candles I have previously mentioned caught the vine-like twists of her fair hair perfectly (it was, again, a good time later that I was to know you were the one who arranged her hair in such an enticing collection of curls). Helen's smile was small and bashful when she reached the floor where we all were gaping. I suppose that was natural: she was thirteen years old and surrounded by men who wished only to wed her and take her to their beds.

Her father called her forth, and I believe that every man there (yes, including me, I'm afraid— you hadn't yet caught my attention, you see, dear Penelope) became envious of Tyndareus when he held her face in his hands and planted a kiss on each of her reddened cheeks. "Bid good evening to your suitors," he ordered her jovially, and I noticed with a raise of my eyebrows that an awful lot of wine was gone from his goblet.

"Good evening, gentlemen," murmured Helen, looking down at the floor, and that was when I noticed you.

It was an elegant, almost seamless stirring of your hand that brought my concentration towards you. You were pressing it, ever gently, against the small of Helen's back; a subtle flush of her face and her hurried bow made it obvious what you had been reminding her, without words, to do.

_A kind lady, _I surmised, and went back to staring at your cousin.

*

"Who's the broad?" slurred Menestheus, the man standing next to me as we all milled about, the ring of suitors surrounding Helen changing by a body or two ever so often. I was waiting patiently for my chance to slip in and greet her, but the wine-laden breath of my comrade served as a distraction.

"You're drunk."

"Ah, the famed brilliance of Odysseus!" he crowed, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I laughed. Menestheus was not one of the violent drunks that you would tell me had often inhabited Ithaca, over two decades and one joyous reunion later, steeped in the darkness of our bedroom.

"But really," he said again, taking another swig of wine and scowling when I yanked it from his unsteady hand. "Who's the broad beside Helen?"

I opening my mouth to answer, but apparently usage Helen's name had inspired his drunken mind to compose a song. _Gaia help me._ "Heeeelen, beautiful Heeeelen, your hair is goooold like the su-u-u-u-un…"

"Strangely enough, I was under the impression it was red," a passing suitor muttered, pausing long enough to roll his eyes and add, "That's Helen's cousin, Penelope. Icarius' daughter."

I held the cup of wine as far away from Menestheus as I could manage and nodded my thanks to the unknown suitor, who raised his chin and then easily melted back into the crowd. I checked the circle of admirers once more, disappointed to discover it was still thick as the Trojan's walls.

"She's nice-looking," my drunken friend observed solemnly— or as solemnly as a drunk person can, at any rate. "Pen— Pelo— Plope…"

"_Penelope,_" I enunciated. "Are you even able to have a cup of wine without going back for gallons more?"

But what I was thinking was: _Strange name… though it rolls off the tongue nicely. _

You understand, of course, this was the first hint towards the fact that you seemed to be made, dear wife, to fascinate me endlessly.

*

I learned of you first and foremost form King Tyndareus, who gave the impression that he thought you but one rung below Pallas Athene.

"A clever girl!" he declared, after more and more suitors had inquired as to the woman who was forever at Helen's side, guarding her as the sphinx had guarded Oedipus from Thebes. "Clever, clever girl."

This seemed his sole remark on the subject. It was clear from the faces of the men surrounding me that they were beginning to resign themselves to the fact that if Helen, lovely Helen, could not be there's, then you, darling, were obviously unmarried and definitely royal. Not unattractive, either, which I assure you men always find a plus.

I was unable to help myself from asking the king: "How exactly is she so very clever?" And you yourself have shouted it many a time, haven't you, when we were having fights that shook the grounds of Ithaca? That I was too ridiculously proud of my title as the cleverest man out of all the others?

Tyrandeus shook his head, his cheeks just as pink as his daughter's had been. Nothing appeared to make the eternal flush dissipate. "She, well—" He cleared his throat, continuing, "I suppose I should say that she, ahem,_ bullied_ one of the visiting princes, years ago, into teaching her how to read letters. Penelope's quite, ah, forceful, when she wants something badly."

The ending statement immediately caused roars of laughter and, inevitably, a variety of lewd comments. I found myself suddenly paternal, thankful that young Helen had already retired to bed with you and her maids. Then, almost as soon as the feeling occurred, I banished it with a frown; that was not a way to view the girl I wished to take as my wife.

Another suitor, one I believed to be called Polypoetes, called to me from where he leant against the wall: "Pray, Odysseus of Ithaca! Perhaps this woman might match your wit!"

"Impossible!" Menestheus bellowed, the effects of his wine half-worn off. He slung an arm about my shoulders. "None should match Odysseus in wit— least of all a woman playmate of Helen's!"

Now, dear heart, perhaps my recollections sound a little strange to you; how many would deign to speak this way before a king, you might ask? But Tyndareus had long since shed his kingly robes and more than dipped into the vat of wine provided by the slaves. I'd heard all the stories of how young he was when Leda and he wed… so young that now, with a child of marriageable age, he would not look out of place with an expectant wife at his side. But his Leda had died years ago— you would come to admit to me, in time, that this was why your father had sent you to stay in Sparta: so rational, so cool-headed, even as a child, that you were suited perfectly to gorgeous, motherless Helen.

This meant that, all in all, it was no surprise Tyndareus was grateful to speak to us and let us speak around him as though we were, if not equals, at least closer to him in status than suitors normally were. The suitor called Polypoetes spoke again, almost jeering— I would come to liken him to the politest of your own many suitors, dearest wife. Remind me again how Helen ended up with only the kindest of men vying for her hand? "I say you don't wish to be bested by a lady!" he said to me, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No," I answered, "I surely do not wish to be bested by you, Polypoetes, but I thought we spoke of Penelope."

More bellows of laughter sounded, and I grinned in spite of myself. "Apologies, fellow," I said, making it impossible for him to hold a grudge against me. Perhaps (_Definitely,_ you'd correct me many a time, _definitely, Odysseus_) I was biting, even rude in my responses, but I always offered words of an apologetic nature afterwards.

Menestheus shook me playfully, throwing his wine glass back and drinking deeply. "Ah!" he announced when he had finished: "You see? There are none so humorous in their wit than Odysseus of Ithaca!"

Suffice to say, my darling, you would come to prove him very wrong.

*

Do you remember our first proper meeting? I certainly do.

I had been missing Argos, beloved hound of mine, and was strolling through the forest the blanketed the left-hand side of the Spartan castle. Several other suitors had embarked on a similar journey, though their pleasure was in the hunt, having borrowed several hounds from the palace. But (as, by now, you well know) I have an aversion to hunting without Argos, and settled for a simple walk.

You and Helen saw me first, that much was obvious.

"Oh, for the sake of Lady Demeter," you muttered, as your cousin shrank back towards the clearing the both of you had just burst out of. This was the first time I had seen her so closely— her braid, I realized, had flashes of auburn entwined with the gold, and her eyes were wide enough to drown within.

My next inclination shocked me at the time, but now I laugh at the obviousness of it: Helen of Sparta, clear as day before me… and yet I had no desire to turn away from your righteous anger.

It made the strands of your loose hair seem to crackle with lightning; the flush in your cheeks was slow-burning, unlike Helen and her father's permanent pinkness. "Can we not have a few minutes of time alone?" you asked me, tone sharp as the sting of Poseidon's salty water, and it took me a moment to realize that you actually wished for me to answer.

"I assure you, ladies, I had no idea you were embarking on a walk," I assured you, aiming for the soothing tone that I shamefully admit to employing in an effort coax my mother into agreeing with me. "I did not wish to join the others on a hunt, and was growing tired of the castle's walls. This is mere coincidence, I can guarantee."

Your gaze was still mistrustful, until Helen placed a slender hand on your arm, bare from the type of dress you wore.

"He's right, Penelope," she said quietly; you would tell me later of Helen's most unique ability to see through almost any falsehood presented to her, and that you (privately, of course) attributed this to the fact that Zeus, most almighty of Gods, had fathered her.

Helen's reassurance was enough to make your shoulders relax their tenseness. You raised your eyes to mine, half-apologetic, half certain that you had been right to question my intentions. "Forgive me, sir," you sighed, sinking, in a tired sort of way, into a bow. It made the thick sheet of your hair fall across your naked shoulder.

"You were forgiven before you said a word," I told you, and then felt a curious pressure in my breast.

I was blind not to realize it, naturally: what could have been only the sharp point of Eros' arrow, lodged straight in the center of my heart.


End file.
